


bon appétit

by namarupa



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cunnilingus, F/M, Food Kink, Gentle femdom, Married Couple, Married Sex, Oral Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-02
Updated: 2019-08-02
Packaged: 2019-11-08 03:37:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17973743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/namarupa/pseuds/namarupa
Summary: Food and intimacy make for fun times. Jon and Sansa have plenty of both.or(sometimes a girl needs a man's mouth)





	bon appétit

**Author's Note:**

> ***** smokes healthy cigar *****  
>  ***** stares into the distance like Clint Eastwood *****
> 
> I think some purple prose might have snuck in there but whatever. On another note, don't put food near yer privates because that may lead to yeast infections, which in my humble opinion are the very devil. 
> 
>  
> 
> **Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of G.R.R. Martin. I am in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any previously copyrighted material. No copyright infringement is intended**
> 
>  
> 
> **Originally published: 16-09-2017**

Sansa took the elevator up to her floor, smushing her nose against the bag of groceries in her arms in an effort to press her floor button. When the doors open she hop-trotted her way down the hallway to the end where her apartment was. Sansa really wished Jon had been with her to haul the produce out of the car and all. Her wrists ached too much today for her to be charitable about the noise pollution that was about to ensue. Nearly a month of prepping her students for exams had done its job. She was going to scream and scream and there was nothing her neighbours could do about it.

She silently congratulated herself on her single handed maneuver with the keys and the door handle- a complicated procedure to avoid releasing the bags, involving a lot of muffled but pointed cursing . She was pretty sure the plastic handles were dangerously close to ripping. Picking them up was going to be the breaking point and she'd have to hunt for the er- tomatoes. Very sure she didn't want the tomatoes in front of the neighbour's door.

Thinking of her newly bought decadent treats that were decidedly-not-tomatoes made her recall the exact moment Jon had texted her during her lunch hour. On break from her slew of music students, she'd switched on her phone and read his message and planned her list, all in the space of ten minutes, grateful for the fact that the staffroom had emptied out just as she'd begun scrolling. No explaining away her fire-engine red ears or the periodic shifting in her seat. Sitting through two subsequent hours of teaching hadn't helped matters, she kept sneaking peeks at her screen, in case another message popped up. But there was just the one, a curt message that lit a steady growing flame in her. Thankfully, the last of her students had cancelled his piano lesson and Sansa was free to run to the nearest mart and get her shopping done, covering up her main purchases with additional fruits and vegetables. 

Once she got inside, she toed off her pumps and set the bags down on the kitchen floor. Piano teaching was surprisingly lucrative here in Oldtown and Jon had a good job as an accountant at his aunt's company, so when they went apartment hunting they'd managed to find an apartment that checked all the boxes on Sansa's list. It was a unit in a Dornish style building. A high ceiling, a large workspace in the kitchen, and a bathroom that could fit two people at the same time and then some. Bliss. 

This particular apartment also appeased Jon's need for an open space plan. He'd taken one look at the bedroom and living room and pressed his hand onto the low of Sansa's back, and he'd dirty talked her right in front of the realtor, his breath mussing the baby hairs by her jawline as he'd whispered to her all the things they could do on the living room floor.

Hence why they'd declined all her mother's offers to sell them tried and tested Stark clan furniture at a reduced price. She loved her home and all it entailed but there was only so much you could do to upscale dog-chewed chairs and hide toddler puke stains, some of which were probably hers. The pieces they had were sturdy but not oppressive, and Sansa's decorating talents kept the rooms looking alive, retaining its airy sense of space. She padded into the living room and pushed the loveseat and the coffee table straight along the wall, along with the two cozy looking armchairs they'd picked up from a vintage dealer on the next street over. Wondering if this was what 50 Shades cultists felt like, she extracted the tarp sheet from the utility closet and laid it out, securing the edges with a little scotch tape. Which was funny, she thought. In the privacy of her own home, in the safety of these walls, what she did was her own business.

Somehow the striking blue looked strangely obscene on top of the wooden floors. Sansa stood there for a moment, imagining the scene that was going to play out shortly, and didn't even care to stop the full body shudder that shut her mind down temporarily, and the sudden ache in her cunt that pushed the breath right out of her. She slapped her thighs. Right, shower time. She was on a schedule.

She took her time primping herself, shaving the hair under her arms and legs and mound where they grew thickest. She left the soft furring on her arms, they were fine and near transparent except under light and Jon sometimes ran his cheek up and down the whole length of them, claiming to love the feeling against his skin. Sansa liked that, though she honestly thought that the repetitive motions supplied a lot of the pleasure as well. He took pride in his consistency, did Jon.

Sansa herself liked a job well done, and that was why she opted for a second wash in the shower to rinse off any stray hairs, drying herself of with gentle strokes of her fluffiest towel, before applying the lotion, an odorless, and more or less tasteless brand, squirting out generous pumps and rubbing it on until every inch of her skin felt slippery and hydrated. She was either still on a bender of imagination or had put on too much lotion, because she felt herself moving much more fluidly, almost slinking her way to the kitchen in her silk robe. She stored away the fresh produce in the vegetable cooler and set out the other stuff on the counter. Which one to tackle first?

The whipped cream, that would take a couple of minutes if she set the mixer on its usual speed. She emptied about half the carton into two mixing bowls, putting the remainder in the fridge for the sponge cake she planned to make for her coworker Shae's birthday. She plugged in the mixer, a gorgeous looking KitchenAid she'd saved up for months to buy, splurging when Jon had called with news that the apartment deal had gone through. "And now we wait," she murmured, switching on the mixer with a guilty little pleasure.

Making the condiments, so to speak, from scratch was the best part. It made her feel involved, and she did so love how the innocuous ingredients could be transformed into items of luxury, suggestive by texture and appearance.

She loved intimacy, loved the slow, swooning lovemaking that she and Jon could indulge in within the confines of the home they'd carved out for themselves. They'd christened every corner on weekends that stretched out in a haze of heady recklessness, mornings of Sangrias that made them switch off all their electronics and just indulge for freedom's sake. Lounging about in their underwear and feasting on ridiculous breakfasts of cumin seed biscuits topped with her first decent batch of hazelnut lemon curd, cured salmon on top of clam and cucumber salad, little meat dumplings lovingly drowned in chilli oil- they'd watch the street below and speculate on people's careers and life secrets, lean against the countertop saying nothing at all sometimes, argue about books and tv and make love by turns in bed. Being married in this new space, away from friends and family, was like falling in love all over again. Slow and tentative. Like when he'd fed her peaches; half of them slipping through his fingers, bits clinging to the vee of her thighs.

He'd waited, oddly on edge, his ears as red as a schoolboy's caught reading a dirty magazine, until Sansa'd moaned her approval and he pressed the pieces into her flesh, slowly dragging them up and everywhere, and followed the residual stickiness with his tongue. He'd lapped at her skin, the most sensitive, thinnest places, her nape, the insides of her arms and thighs, the undersides of her breasts closest to her nipples, until she'd pulled away from him, slapping at his chest and then he'd laid her down and suckled her breasts, his fingers pumping in and out of her cunt. 

"Glorious," he'd crooned while his fingers stopped moving and he'd let her orgasm from only the pull of his lips on her nipples. The experience left her a little shaken, but she wanted more, and Jon was happy to let her explore what made her come apart so ferociously like that.

Smooth, rhythmic- whoops! Sansa came to, turning the mixer off. The cream was just a hair's breadth away from being over beaten, a close call. She gave herself a mental pat on the back while scraping the cream into a little bowl, part of the set she kept apart from the usual tableware. She turned her attention to the chocolate next. A simple couple of seconds in the microwave would do the trick. She wasn't especially keen on washing more dishes than she had to, but it would only harden if she did it now. She decided to break up the bar into little pieces to keep in another bowl for later, it was Jon's favourite, a dark, pleasantly bitter chocolate infused with rum. Sansa liked it too, so she broke off a bit and chewed while she worked, the rum warming the insides of her cheek and throat.

And the honey? She used it in her cooking and on her crackers, especially when MasterChef Myr was on, she loved bingeing out while watching that show. The contestants were so much more genial and polite than the ones in the Westerosi version. She oiled a spoon and scooped out some into a third bowl- the honey slipped right off and Sansa tried not to put too much thought into the effortless way it just oozed into the bowl, forming ruffles in on itself. She was winding herself up, and she didn't want to start until she was on the tarp.

Finally, things were ready. She brought the bowls to the living room and set them down on the plastic sheet, then went to the bedroom and hung up her dressing gown. The lotion had all but sank into her skin, living it soft, silky smooth. Sansa grabbed a pillow from the bed, along with her phone from her handbag, and her vibrator from the nightstand. She tingled with anticipation, even the walk to the tarp was a heady thing. Her breaths came out quick little puffs. 

She lay down, propping her knees up and pushed the pillow underneath her back where her bum and the arch of her back made a little gap, then she spread herself out and angled her vibrator just the way she liked it, going one higher than the lowest speed, just to get that thrum against her clit. The ache grew, climbing slowly towards pleasurable, and then nearly unbearable in its stagnancy. Sansa adjusted her grip on the vibrator, turning it up a higher setting, and begin to steadily pant while it brought her closer and closer to the edge, and just when the pleasure returned full force she brought it back down, pulling the vibrator away for a second.

"Jon," she moaned, the syllables of his name stretched out like taffy trailing from the curl of her tongue to the painted ceiling above. It hung in the silence of the room, with only the faint buzz from the vibrator for company and she let her whimpers out, making good on her earlier intentions. She moaned Jon's name again and again, extending her game of endurance.

She focused on the warm, slightly alien tingle of the vibrator beneath the pleasure and told herself not to forget, remembered the hot, sticky lave of Jon's tongue, forced herself not to imagine his hands or his mouth on her. Don't touch yourself, she thought desperately. Don't let yourself come yet. Instead she imagined his voice. The grunts he made into her neck. His big hands on her hips- and her moans turned to begging, a sweet, acid clench in her lower belly, as if he could hear her all the way from work, and she began to thrust and rock her hips, pushing off the floor.

In her haze she turned her head to the side then, to catch a glimpse of her phone, reaching out to unlock it with her unoccupied hand and checked the time. He was due home soon, was probably stepping out of his car and into the building this very moment. She needed to finish, wanted to come just as he opened the door, so that her shouts and moans slipped out through the crack in the door and reverberated all through the hallway, maybe her neighbors would hear the ruckus of her orgasm and come to investigate the fuss, peeking over Jon's shoulders to watch her scrabble and lift her legs high above her head, see the pink of her cunt tremble and throb in spasms, and the thought of it did her in, her muscles clenched, seizing and locked, her climax hit and she rubbed the vibrator over her clit and down her slit, frantically trying to extend the feeling, then it was gone, ebbing away and Sansa sobbed with the force of her orgasm and its loss.

She was still trying to catch her breath, her tears cooling on her cheeks, when she heard the quiet snick of Jon's key turning the lock. Her muscles were too fatigued for her to move up and out of sight, and she lay with her eyes closed, trembling with aftershocks. She heard his shoes echo on the floor, the door closing. She heard his bunch of keys jingle and clack as he placed it into the little Myrish artisan bowl they kept on the shelf by the entrance, and she felt his approach, the slow anticipation that came with him a near solid thing. She smelt him, over the salt and musk of her sweat and slick, the subtle cologne he used, and she opened her eyes and met his gaze, to see him crouching before her, looking her over from head to stretched out foot.

He didn't say a word as he loosened his tie and tossed it to the side, his lips parted, his eyes so hot they could have seared where they looked, that her cunt grew warm and flush. His cock strained against his tailored pants, a large bulge against royal blue. It must be so uncomfortable, Sansa thought. But I don't care. I want his lips on me. She let her legs fall open in an obscene spread, and she saw his throat bob, heard his audible swallow.

"Fuck, Sansa," he rumbled, rubbing his palms over his thighs. "I could hear you from outside."

He was being so good, being so patient with his wanting. Sansa wanted to coo and brush his hair back where it fell in tangled curls over his forehead, she smiled at him lazily and he slowly dropped to his knees and hands, crawling to her to her side and she brought him to lay half on top of her her, tangling her legs with his as she brought his head to pillow against her breasts.

"How was work?" she asked, carding her fingers through his curls, running them lightly over his scalp, smelling the faint scent of the argan oil he used instead of wax. Jon made a low sound in his throat, raising bumps on Sansa's skin in an answering thrill.

"Alright," he mumbled, after a while. Then his tongue was licking a sly circle on her breast, and he latched onto a nipple, taking advantage of her silence.

She let out a soft oooh of pleasure, her nails scraping the edges of his ears and down the nape of his neck. Jon gasped and reached forward to capture her lips in a kiss, like pulling on a bottle of vodka, burning and sharp. She felt his tongue lick into her mouth to slide along the inside of her cheek and felt him shudder, and she pushed him away. He sat up almost immediately, though she could feel him hard against her thigh and his heavy breaths were visible, by the rise and fall of his chest beneath his shirt.

"Sansa," he said, and it was almost a whine.

She felt strangely lax, as if she was floating. Almost dreamily, she laced their fingers together, and Jon's eager sudden press against her thigh, a swift involuntary grinding made her give him her sweetest smile, the one she reserved especially for him.

"Get me ready," she said gently but firmly, she liked being firm with him. "Please."

A moan escaped him, so deep and low she felt it in her bones for her own, and Jon moved lower until he was level with her cunt. She felt his blunt, thick fingers gathering the wetness already there, and then Sansa pushed herself up on her elbows to see him push his fingers into his mouth and suck, as he deliberately held her gaze and slowly brought them out, clean, for her to see. Sansa let her head fall back as Jon gave a huff of laughter that had her pushing her hips into his face, like a wanton.

"You're gorgeous, San," he said in a low rumble, "like silk here," he licked, a harsh stripe, making her yelp "like silk everywhere" a swipe, testing her composure with flirting, playful little swipes and fleeting kisses across her outer lips and inner thighs, forcing broken moans from her throat that she stifled with her palms.

He was cheating. She brought her thighs together, trapping him between them and squeezed, rolling her hips until his face was pressed flat against her cunt and she held him there, as his hands came up to grasp the give of her thighs on either side, his fingers digging into the flesh hard enough to bruise. A ghost of command; it intoxicated her. She counted to five in a syrupy drawl, while Jon kneaded her hips with increasing fervor before she let him up, gasping and red in the face.

"I thought I told you to get me ready," she said lightly, running her fingers round and round her nipples until they stiffened. She wished she'd worn the chains..

"Gods," Jon groaned, staring at her. Sansa only laughed, gleeful at the thought of surprising him for once. He smiled, a slash of bared teeth and dove back between her thighs, nuzzling her lower lips open with his nose, shrugging her legs over his shoulders. He pushed his tongue flat and wriggled it, then settled in a rhythm, one she adored, one that had her tossing her head from side to side. She fisted his hair, pulling on it, twisting it, let her hips swivel and rock and caressed his back with her calves and feet.

Every motion had him making the most delicious noises and it was only all good, give and take on equal terms. Sansa gave in to the insistent sinuous feel of him, looked up to see him looking back intently from where he was fucking her with his tongue, so sweet and filthy. "Such a good boy," she crooned with abandon, reaching to brush her fingers against his cheeks were hollowed out with sucking her clit and met his eyes, blown dark and wide, the grey swallowed up by the fat black of his pupils. She knew he'd like that, watched his eyes shut and felt his groan vibrate into her..

"Go slow," she breathed, smoothing his hair back, smiling at him. There was something lush about having him between her legs, a rasp of a bow unraveling, a distinct suffusion of almost maternal pride, an unholy glow as she cupped his head to her cunt, and let her hips undulate, unhurried, until his jaw would ache, until his cock went stiff and heavy with the need for release. Sansa wanted this all day, to make him work her. "Slower," she said, tapping his shoulder, "slower."

He obliged, his arm reaching up across her stomach, an iron band pinning her in place. This was what she'd missed out on, the weight of him, the feel of him, his beard rasping her inner thighs rosy and hot, as good as drowning in a bath of cream and milk with a good strong Syrah pooling in her throat, she arched her back and let out a low satisfied sigh as he lapped at her like a kitten. 

The sky went dark behind the gauzy curtains, nautical dusk of Jon's favourite time, the large bay windows letting in the light of newly lit street lamps below. Sansa hummed a strange toneless, the syllables of his name, that went on and on. He didn't speak. He didn't need to, when they were like this. His wordless sounds were enough. He needed his mouth for other things. She felt languorous, a melting, liquid contentment much like the rum chocolate she'd eaten flowing through her veins, she felt weightless, the ground beneath her like waves, her body suspended in limbo. Jon's shoulders had pinkened, wine stained, his hips moved, bucked helplessly and Sansa knew he was at his limit, grinding his erection into the floor. Arousal bubbled in her deepest self, she felt swollen, luxuriant and shamelessly proud of it.

"Now," she said breathlessly, yelping as he bit not too gently at the crease of her thigh. "You can make me come now,".

"Can I?" He murmured, pressing kisses on her hip bone. "How do you want it?"

"Harder," she replied, her cheeks a damp pink. "Faster." 

He picked up the pace, tightening his grip on her, reaching up to tweak and pull at her nipples, squeezing her breasts, stretching her nerves thin. It felt like she was climbing up a tower of ice-cream, sinking up to her knees into a plush mess as she clambered to the top, as he spun her tighter, tight as candy floss before she melted in his mouth.

"Make me come," she gasped, "make me come Jon, you're such a _good_ boy."

"Good boy," she babbled, "the nicest, _sweetest_ -". She wanted to hold him and cuddle him until he fell apart from sheer want, and he sucked all the more until she fought against his hold.

"Come back," Jon panted, grasping at her hips, "fuck my mouth Sansa, there's a girl, fuck my mouth." 

She clenched hard enough to see stars, her muscles straining, seeing white spots against the black and red of her eyes screwed shut, his name ever louder until she was screaming it, panting it, and Jon didn't stop, brought her to another peak and another almost immediately until she couldn't be sure if they were just aftershocks or actual orgasms, she didn't even care, shaking and writhing, she hauled him up to kiss him, tasting herself, salty and tangy, lemons and brine, as she twitched, oversensitive and reeling. The beautiful, lovely, _lovely_ man.

"Good?" he said.

If she said no, would he go back on his knees? Maybe it'd be a challenge. Or an order. Sansa found she liked giving him orders.

She shook her head, and he frowned. But she was teasing.

"You've got too many clothes on."

He shrugged out of his jacket, wrenching off his shirt and nearly ripping the buttons. He unbuckled his belt and loosened it so he could shuck off his pants and kick them away. They landed in a heap and she wanted to giggle- drunk as she was on endorphins. He was going to cost them a fortune in dry cleaning bills if this became a regular occurence. She watched, as if from behind frosted glass, as he peeled off his socks.

"Jon?" she said.

"Hmm?" he replied. He took off his briefs, hissing as he brought them down, and Sansa's lips parted. She never realised a man's cock could be so pretty to look at before Jon. Joffrey had begun to put her off even before they'd become intimate and Sansa rarely if ever found him sexually pleasurable, but with Jon every part of him was something to explore, something to savour. His cock was pink and bright, hard and leaking precum and Sansa had the urge to suck on it like a strawberry lollipop.

"I've got something for you," she said, motioning towards the bowls she'd set up. Sansa watched him pick them up and dip his fingers into each one to taste. The ends of his lips quirked up and down, the oddly endearing not-smile she'd grown accustomed to looking for, to tell if he was secretly happy with something, and she held out her arms to him, a sudden rush of love expanding in her chest.

He brought the bowls over.

"Lie back," he said.  Sansa spread herself flat on the tarp. Jon took handfuls of whipped cream and smeared it all over her breasts, leaving globs of it over her nipples and areolas, and then he rubbed the honey over his palms and placed them flat beneath her breasts and slide them down to her belly in twin streaks, the sticky flow almost ticklish, upending the rest over her navel in a thin dribble of yellow-gold. It felt as if he were coating her in satin, but different. She relished the sensation, the way he short her furtive glances, trying to gauge her reaction  as he made slow work of it all. Sansa attempted to squirm away from his touch but Jon took her hands in his and brought them above her head.

"Patience," he quipped sing-song, angling away from the gnash of teeth she tried to land on his arm then dipped down to give her a kiss. Sansa relaxed into it, sucking on his tongue in sweet pulls.  He broke it off, breathing  heavily, his forehead resting on hers, and she tried to reach his cheeks, his eyelids with swift, soft kisses.

"Fuck me, please?" She grinned, as if she couldn't feel his hips already settling, as if her own legs weren't linking to rest at his back, her toes touching and digging into his flesh.

"What about all this?" He flicked her nipples, grinning as cream caught on his fingertips.

"Later," Sansa said, wriggling for a better grip. "You can have me for dessert."

Jon started to laugh.

"What?"

"Nothing, no, something," he pecked her cheek, "I love how shameless you are when you're nice and _-fuck_ , Sansa!"

Sansa laughed, marveling at the shift in his expression as she eased his cock into her, an easy glide from how wet she was and then he was crowding her, fucking her deep. It unnerved her sometimes, his eyes burning and focused on her when he fucked her like this, above her and all around her, caging her with his arms around his head, moving and moving, relentlessly. She felt almost removed, used but not, because every time she looked away his fingers would touch her cheek, soft as a dove's feather, and she would look up at him and drown in the sensations he aroused in her, gratified because he was was hers and hers. Jon bit back a curse as Sansa whimpered, giving in at last, raising her hips to meet his thrusts. 

"Sweetheart," he said, "sweetheart, you're divine, you're so fucking beautiful, fuck I can't last," his head dropped to her neck, and she heard his muffled litanies, "hot", and "wet" and a dozen other things that burned where he mouthed them. She squeezed her aching muscles, murmuring endearments, ginger caramel coiling and snaking along his ear, her pink nails running over his shoulders. Its because you make me like this, she wanted to tell him, because you shape me like this and I let you because I love you. But she didn't, couldn't, her voice had caught. His hips snapped erratically, pushing her up against the tarp, the pillow beneath her moving away and Sansa fell for a moment in space, the drop forcing his cock deeper, the cream and honey like taut second skin. She groaned when he grunted at the change and fisted his hands in her hair, for once tugging enough to elicit pain. It was like a switch, every nerve fibre awake and demanding satisfaction, overfull and clamoring for something, anything. She wanted him to lose control to her as she was losing herself to him.

"I'm close, fuck. Sansa-so fucking good around my cock, filthy- _sweet-_ "

He slowed, stroking deep into her, grinding his hips a final time before pulling out and doing it all over again. He _fucked_ into her, that's what he did. She pressed open mouth kisses where she could reach, tasting salt, stinging where she bit her lips. "Oh, god." She pushed at his chest.  "I'm close too- you say I'm divine but you are, Jon, I swear, I want you to come. It's too much, I want- oh gods, _Jon-_ "

She was so sensitive from before, that when his hand came down to circle her nub it was enough, a weak fluttering of her walls around him that had her muffling her screams against his skin, her tongue licking weakly at the juncture of his neck where his pulse beat hardest, and through it she felt his release. He pressed her into the floor and held himself tense for a long time, a guttural shout escaping him. It sounded like her name.

"Sorry," he panted, chest heaving as he settled on the tarp. His forearm went up over his eyes, then he went silent. 

"I'm getting a towel," Sansa said finally, when she could think again. She could tell, secretly proud, that he had spent himself, and now sated, he still needed time to recollect. One day, she made up her mind as she wobbled to the bath cupboard, she would share how it was for her. One day she'd make a tart, of pomegranate filling and sweetened raspberries and salted chocolate ganache, and she'd feed it to him and whisper all the lovely things he made her feel. 

When she came back he was still on the ground, blinking up at the ceiling.

Sansa curled around him, taking his hand and licked at his palms where the the sticky residue clung. "All in a day's work," she quipped. He chuckled, wearily kissing her sweaty forehead. 

"Thank you," he murmured. "I needed that."

Sansa blushed. Should she tell him his eyelashes fluttered when he was like this, blissed out post-sex? Gods, he was too pretty for his own good. She decided against it, closed her eyes and they half dozed in the silence, linking their fingers.

"Bad day?" She asked, knowing full well it was. It was difficult in the beginning, coaxing him to let her in on the days he was feeling his lowest. She'd known him since childhood and there was nothing unfamiliar about the way he kept his problems bottled up inside. She tried to respect his space but sometimes he brought his frustration home with him and she didn't like seeing him wound up over things that for the most part weren't even his fault. Home was supposed to be their safe space.

He sighed, rubbing circles on her belly, somewhat impeded by the stagnant layer of honey. Sansa shivered at the touch of his hands, loving the scrape of his fingernails against her skin- from the sudden pull of his lips he knew it too.

"Viserys was being an ass at the meeting today," he finally said and Sansa let out an ugh of understanding; Viserys was her least favourite of Jon's extended family, and for good reason.

"Is he still sore you got promoted over him?"

"Dunno. He was just being petulant. It was childish." 

"Did he say something?" Because she could say things right back. If there was one thing her previous internship under Petyr Baelish had taught her, it was that.

"Yes," Jon tweaked her nose, mock-scowling. "But it's forgotten. He apologized."

"Really?" Sansa huffed amusedly. "Now that I'd pay good money to see. What did he say?"

"To apologise? Can't remember. He came in just after I texted you and I-"

Jon brought himself closer, abruptly rolling them over until he was on top of her. "-I nodded my head like a good boy and now we're a happy, semi-homicidal family again. Forget Viserys," he said, "I haven't had dessert yet."

Sansa bit her lip and stretched. An anticipatory hunger of a different kind suffused her. The tarp was cool at her back while the summery heat blanketed the entire room in damp warmth. She wondered what Jon would say to having sex with the windows open. If Ellaria Sand from next door could do it, so could they.

"Start with the honey, before it dries," she advised and propped herself up on her elbows to watch him.

"My favourite part," Jon said.

"Ooh wait, Jon! We forgot the chocolate," Sansa exclaimed.

"Save it for later. You can always eat it off me," he grinned as he he got to work.

Sansa let her head loll back.

Today was a Friday, after all.

(And Fridays were her cheat days.)

**Author's Note:**

> You might ask what motivated me to write 5K+ worth of smut. I dunno. I did it for the chemistry. Comment, Kudos, Flame, etc. Let me know what you think :)


End file.
